Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

e

of those who perished in Noah's flood. But this seems to me a very unlikely interpretation. The passage is indeed extremely obscure; and I have seen no explanation of it that is free from objection; but I will subjoin that which seems to me the most probable. "By the power of which Divine Spirit of His, long before His manifestation in the flesh, he came to the old world; and by the mouth of Noah, that 'preacher of righteousness,' spake to them whose spirits are now fast prisoned in hell; which were in their lifetime wicked and disobedient to His holy counsels: when the patient long-suffering of God gave a large respite to them for their repentance and conversion, even all the while the ark was preparing by Noah."-Bishop Hall.

e

Scripture Revelations concerning a Future State, 1842.

THE CIRCLE.

weet Twilight comes; and her blue eye
Smiles on the evening placidly;

The gentle winds go murmuring by,

And nightingales are singing nigh.

The Moon is up, and all the air
Is filled with light and beauty rare;
And every thing she maketh fair
Seems wishing she were always there.

The Morning breaks-the rosy morn,
And, lingering to see him dawn,
The moon and stars, of lustre shorn,
Look down upon the world forlorn.

The Sun arises, clothed in gold,
Shaking the rocks and mountains bold,
Waking the Forests green and old,
And tingeing all the waters cold.

The Day has come; the gaudy day;
And starry night has gone away;
With all that was so fair and gay-

And where are they? O where are they?

G. S. P.

THE CHOICE OF BOOKS.

A SPOKEN DISCOURSE.

POOKS are our household gods; and we cannot prize them too highly. They are the only gods in all the Mythologies that are ever beautiful and unchangeable; for they betray no man, and love their lovers. I confess myself an Idolator of this literary religion, and am grateful for the blessed ministry of books. It is a kind of heathenism which needs no missionary funds, no Bible even, to abolish it; for the Bible itself caps the peak of this new Olympus, and crowns it with sublimity and glory. Amongst the many things we have to be thankful for, as the result of modern discoveries, surely this of printed books is the highest of all; and I for one, am so sensible of its merits that I never think of the name of Guttenberg without feelings of veneration and homage.

I no longer wonder, with this and other instances before me, why in the old days of reverence and worship, the saints and benefactors of mankind were exalted into a kind of demi-gods, and had worship rendered to their tombs and memories; for this is the most natural, as well as the most touching, of all human generosities, and springs from the profoundest depths of man's nature. Who does not love John Guttenberg ?-the man that with his leaden types has made the invisible thoughts and imaginations of the Soul visible and readable to all and by all, and secured for the worthy a double immortality? The birth of this person was an era in the world's history second to none save that of the Advent of Christ. The dawn of printing was the outburst of a new revelation, which, in its ultimate unfoldings and consequences, are alike inconceivable and immeasurable.

I sometimes amuse myself by comparing the condition of the people before the time of Guttenberg, with their present condition; that I may fix the idea of the value and blessedness of books more vividly in my mind. It is an occupation not without profit, and makes me grateful and contented with my lot. In these reading days one can hardly conceive how our good forefathers managed to kill their superfluous time, or how at least they could be satisfied to kill it as they did. A life without books, when we have said all we can about the honor and nobility of labor, would be something like heaven without God; scarcely to be endured by an immortal nature. And yet this was the condition of things before Guttenberg made his far sounding metallic tongues which reach thrö all the ages that have since past away, and make us glad with their eloquence.

Formerly, the Ecclesiastics monopolized the literature of the world; they were indeed in many cases the Authors and Transcribers of books; and we are indebted to them for the preservation of the old learning. Now, every Mechanic is the possessor of a Library, and may have Plato and Socrates, as well as Chaucer and the Bards, for his companions. I call this a heavenly privilege, and the greatest of all known miracles, notwithstanding it is so cheap and common.

Plato died above two thousand years ago, yet in these printed books he lives and speaks for ever. There is no death to thought; which tho it may never be imprisoned in lettered language, has nevertheless an existence and propagative vitality as soon as it is uttered, and endures from generation to generation, to the very end of the world. I think we should all of us be grateful for books: they are our best friends and most faithful companions. They instruct, cheer, elevate, and ennoble us; and in whatever mood we go to them they never frown upon us, but receive us with cordial and loving sincerity: neither do they blab, or tell tales of us when we are gone, to the next comer; but honestly, and with manly frankness, speak to our hearts in admonition or encouragement. I do not know how it is with other men, but I have so much reverence for these silent and beautiful friends that I feel in them to have an immortal and divine posession, which is more valuable to me than many estates and kingdoms. The noise and babble of men disturb me not in my princely domain, enricht by the presence so many high and royal souls. What can our foolish politicians, and long-winded teachers of less profane things, have to say to me, when Socrates speaks, or Shakspere and Milton sing? I like to be alone in my chamber, and obey the the muse or the spirit. We make too little of books, and have quite lost the meaning of contemplation. Our times are too busy; too exclusively outward in their tendency; and men have lost their balance in the whirlpools of commerce and the fierce tornadoes of political strife. I want to see more poise in men,

of

more self-possession; and these can only be obtained by communion with books. I lay stress on the word communion, because, altho reading is common enough, communion is but little known as a modern experience. If an author be worth anything, he is worth bottoming. It may be all very well to skim milk, for the cream lies on the top; but who could skim Lord Bacon?

The choice of books is not the least part of the duty of a Scholar. If he would become a man, and worthy to deal with manlike things, he must read only the bravest and noblest books; books forged at the heart and fashioned by the intellect of a godlike man. A clever interesting writer, is a clever interesting fool; and is no Master for the scholar I speak of. Our literature abounds with such persons, and will abound with them so long as the public mind remains diseased with this morbid love of 'light reading.' We have exchanged the martial tramp of the Commonwealth's men, for the nimble foot of the lamp-lighter and the thief-taker. This comes from the false culture of men, and the consequent false tendencies of their minds and aims. We have had enough of this inane, unmanly discipline, and need a higher and truer one. I am not, however, for any Monkish exclusion of men from the world in their study of books; for the end of all study is action; and I would not cheat the Master by any bye laws in favor of the Scholar. But a certain kind of exclusion is necessary for culture in the first instance, and for progressive developments of that culture afterwards. The human mind will not be played with, or the Player will find it out to his cost. For the laws of the intellect, and of man's Spiritual nature, are as stern and binding as those of matter, and you cannot neglect or violate them without loss or suffering. Hence books should be our constant companions, for they stimulate thought, and hold a man to his purpose.

It is difficult to say precisely what books should be read, for men's minds differ

so much that what one has a great aptitude for, another would reject as out of his kin. In this respect every one should, for the most part, follow the bent of his own mind. There is a general discipline, however, to which all who aim at scholarship must submit. History, Moral Philosophy, a general acquaintance with the Physical Sciences, Mathematics, Grammar, Geography, and the Literature of their country, are indispensable to them. Some of the ancient and modern languages may likewise form a part of this discipline, but, with very few exceptions, they should be subordinates, and not, as is too much the case at present, principals. The literature of England would require a wide generalization. For Poetry I think a man should begin with Milton. He is the finest

epic example we can boast of; and his language is the best and richest English. There is a high religious tone likewise in his poems, especially in his Paradise Lost, which reminds one of the Cathedral and the swelling of a mighty organ. A mind thoroly imbued with the poetry and religious feeling of Milton, would not be likely to descend to lower sentiments, or have its taste perverted by a writer of less merit. As a general rule the scholar should read none but the best books; those most approved by the judgment of time. It is waste of time to go fishing for excellences in the shallow and obscure waters of literature, whilst the great deep sea is before us. Not Mrs. Hemans, nor the melodious Thomas Moore-the two musical snuff-boxes of Poetry-can tune the soul to grand aspirings, or build it up to high purposes. If you want to be a Female-man, take these grinders of the muses' shell for your exemplars; but if you would be a godlike man and learn the music of the spheres, read Milton! Next to Milton I would recommend Shakspere; not that I think Shakspere second to Milton, or to any man living or dead, but because a person read in Milton would be likely to appreciate Shakspere better, and keep his balance more securely in the presence of that wide, diversified, and universal man. I commend Shakspere also, for his knowlege of life, and his deep insight into the nature and workings of the human heart. He is the only writer that can set the soul at liberty, and make it sympathize with the lowest as well as the highest forms of existence. A student of Shakspere could not be a bigot, a tyrant, a manhater, or any bad thing, even if he would. He must grow and expand in the sunshine of that mighty heart. For Shakspere holds all things cheap and dear at the same time. He is not crampt, stunted, dwarft; is not poorly and painfully tied down to one Idea, or set of ideas; but in the largeness of his nature he embraces the world, and clasps the very Infinite to his bosom. His ideas are rich and numerous as the stars, and his creations are all types of character. Nowhere do we see Shakspere in the Plays of Shakspere. He has not left upon them a single mark of his own individuality, properly so called; but every one of his characters is distinct in itself, and speaks and acts from its own personal nature. Falstaff is not Shakspere, neither is Lear nor Hamlet; the creative-Bard is greater than them all. It is strange how much could come out of one man!--how the great and terrible, the high and the beautiful, could dwell so near to the ignoble and the mean. Between the wonderful creations of Caliban and Miranda what a wide gulf gapes! And yet the poet made them both, and they are warm with human sympathy, and with a beauty that is proper to each. I am charmed with this wonderful annihilation of self in Shakspere. He is no Byron to repeat and

re-repeat himself and his sorrows, in endless Manfreds, Corsairs and Harolds; but from first to last he respects the personality of a man, and is too great for egotism. He stands for Nature; and a Pedlar is in his eyes as sacred as a King, and as worthy as he of an interpreter. For the human heart and the human soul are one, wherever they exist, in the cottage or the palace; and have the same passions and emphasis of existence, the same hopes and infinite longings. There is an unconsciousness, also, in Shakespere, which stamps him royal; and this unconsciousness is the highest atmosphere in which a great soul can move; the highest souis indeed move in no other. He obeys the fiery spirit that takes possession of his nature, and is ignorant of his greatness. He is as pious as a saint; but his religion comes out in beautiful radiations, like gushes of silent sunshine, not in set discourses. His words drop with love, and the odor of a sweet sanctity; nothing morbid escapes from him. God is the Creator and the Preserver; the giver of all good; and for Shakspere that is enough. I like him very well as a Clergyman; for he speaks to the purpose. Nay, I could call every one of his plays a sermon; and all his Plays a Complete Body of Divinity. I know of no writings that have done better service to humanity; or that have taught high and sacred truths with such striking practical examples. It is quite true that in many of his Plays there are the embodiments of mean, vicious, and vulgar persons; but Shakspere found the men he drew, and did not make them. The Devil might have had a hand in this latter business, perhaps; but that was no concern of the poet. His object was to re-present men as they were; not to write Utopia's. He called black black; and white white. Altogether he is the most plain spoken and truthful man I know. Hence his immense fame. But nowhere does he recommend vice or vicious pursuits. He certainly enters with great spirit into all his characters, and hits them off to the life; but this is the cunning of the Artist, not the sanction of the man. He comes from the lewd dens of Cheapside, and the companionship of Hal, and Poins, and Falstaff, into the presence of Ophelia and Desdemona, without spot or corruption. He knew men and women by heart. Nature, with her most cunning artifice, could not elude his all-seeing eye. He is the Biographer of Humanity. His intuitions are the deepest philosophy. He did not aim at results, but achieved them. speakably great was this man Shakspere. Think of Hamlet; the mystic embodiment of scepticism, with its wavering purposes, cowardice, immaturity, and aimless life;—a man without roots; tost upon the shoreless sea of doubt and irresolution; wooing despair, madness, and annihilation, but perpetually haunted by the awful uncertainty of the future, the canon against self-slaughter, and the shadow of God's presence and splendor. Hamlet is called upon to revenge the murder of his father; but he is too weak; for scepticism can do nothing; nay, he himself becomes a murderer, and is involved in the fearful retribution that closes the tragedy. Think of Lear, the uncrowned King; of his unnatural daughters, and that sweetest, most loving and beautiful one, who, with the heart of Ruth, clung to the deserted father in his madness and desolation. For this is a drama of life which is acted every day; and that is a phase of individual experience thrö which all earnest men pass. Othello, Shylock, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, and the historical dramas, are equally wonderful and instructive-for they contain every variety of human character, and unfold the workings of every

Un

« НазадПродовжити »